First and Last
by EOlivet
Summary: The night before the morning Matthew was to leave the house, he and Mary find each other for the last time. Mid-2x07. Based on the Downton Anime seen on Tumblr.


Disclaimer: The characters you recognize described herein are the property of Julian Fellowes and ITV. No copyright infringement is intended.

Timeline: Mid to end of 2x07.

A/N: This is based on the anime that had been circulating in the Downton Abbey tag on Tumblr – forwarded to me by the lovely smndolphin. The characters bore such a physical resemblance to M/M that I decided to write my own version of it. So, most of the dialogue is taken from the anime, as are the actions (both obviously in a slightly different context). It hopefully hovers on the edge between highly unlikely canon and AU wish fulfillment.

* * *

It was just an ordinary room.

Plain with white walls. A wardrobe. A chair where certain venerable Ladies could calmly alter his perspective on his future without blinking.

A chair…

His hands gripped the wheels as he rolled down the sparse corridor. It was to be his last night in the big house. After dinner, cousin Robert had spoken to him and though the man had sounded grieved to do it, there was no mistake. The rest of the family had tried to pretend they'd not guessed the tenor of the conversation, all except Mary – who cousin Cora claimed had gone upstairs early, since she was due to meet Richard Carlisle at the station in the morning.

The morning Matthew was being evicted.

Tomorrow, he would return to Crawley House, where his mother and Lavinia would become his unwitting nurses, should he need any further care. _Tomorrow_ was the only reason he was still in this blasted chair in the first place, because he would need all his strength to go back to that house – to _his _house – and leave…

Shaking his head, he made a futile attempt to rid himself of the hollow echo of cousin Violet's words running on a never-ending loop through his consciousness. He was certain he wouldn't hear them quite so much in…different company. Indeed, it would be a blessed relief to leave this place at last.

Matthew reached for the door of his self-imposed sanctuary. Bates was otherwise occupied this evening (terrible business about his late wife) so Matthew had been instructed to ring and any available member of the staff would assist him.

This of course, had only reinforced his determination to manage on his own.

His hand hovered over the handle, when he was stopped by a faint sound – a rhythmic…breathing of sorts. Short, quick gasps with the barest hint of a voice he knew instantly, a voice that made him want to simultaneously rush inside and wheel himself back down the corridor as fast as the chair could carry him.

In the end, he decided on neither. His lips formed the first precious syllable of her name – but still, he hesitated. What if it was merely a maid or a servant who was having a particularly terrible day and had chosen his room in which to vent her sorrows?

What if he got it wrong? Indeed, he always seemed to get it wrong where she was concerned.

"Are you alright?" he finally asked.

But when the room went quiet, he knew he wasn't wrong. If he listened carefully enough, he wondered if he could hear the sound of her held breath.

"I'm sorry – really I am," he continued, as if he was the one intruding. Shaking his head, he couldn't help a small, albeit disbelieving smile at the situation before him. "But who would've thought…"

He closed his eyes against cousin Violet's words once more, his heart clenching in almost agony.

"Once morning comes, I'll be leaving." He didn't know whether it sounded more like a promise or a threat. "As soon as possible," he added, again managing a shaky smile that nobody saw.

"No, that's not…" Finally, her soft voice wafted through the door, halting only slightly as she spoke.

Matthew had to fight the urge to lean forward – to let his hand rest on the door in some kind of odd gesture of unseen comfort.

There was a noise in the corridor, and his eyes darted round to see a shadow of what looked to be a maid approaching. If he was seen outside his door, they would presume he needed assistance, and they would open the door for him, where they would find…

Panicked, he grasped the handle and turned it, just as he could hear her continuing. "There's no need to apologize – that's not what I…"

A lamp was on the table beside the bed, illuminating the vague outline of her figure – and he swallowed, uncomfortably at the idea of just how much he _could_ see. His eyes met hers for only a moment before glancing back down at his lap, pretending that he was absorbed with the task of wheeling himself into the room. As he reached a hand up to push the door closed behind him, his eyes closed at the image that had faded from sight - supplanting itself in his memory.

Mary in a dressing gown, with her nightdress peeking out in what should not have been a taunting fashion. Her long, beautiful hair that he'd half-teasingly urged her not to cut, plaited and tied with a ribbon, falling loosely down her shoulder. Her cheeks slightly flushed, her eyes slightly larger and her clenched knuckles practically white in the dim light.

She had been standing by his bed, and now he could see her moving quietly to the side of the room, as if she was somehow embarrassed.

He stopped his chair – not wanting to inadvertently give chase or embarrass her or (please God no) frighten her.

If only he could make himself as vulnerable as she looked…

With a small, self-deprecating smile, he lifted one previously useless leg to the floor, where his foot landed with a soft thud. He did the same with the other leg, trying not to feel the heat of her searching gaze upon him. His own knuckles clenched white as he braced himself on the arms of his chair, awkwardly lifting his body to an almost upright position.

Matthew flushed slightly, remembering the first time he'd done this – in the drawing room, to the strains of polite, strained applause – how he'd instinctively looked for her eyes, but she had only had them for Carlisle…as it should be, and yet...

Then why had she been weeping in his room? Cousin Violet's words again whispered to him, as he released the arms of the chair - wavering as he stood, but maintaining his balance.

His feet shook as he ambled heavily toward the bed. His chair was to the side of the door, and his slow strides were at an angle – clearing a path for her so she might leave if she wanted.

Still, she stayed on the opposite side – though he could hear her breathing becoming more labored. He wanted to ignore it, to not look at her, to preserve her modesty. Yet, at this point, he was uncertain whether she was alright, so he reluctantly raised his head and finally, finally, met her eyes.

His breath drew in, as he saw that same intent, sparkling gaze he had always assumed was of friendly affection. For they were _friends_ – dear friends – she was in some ways his best friend in the world, but that was not what cousin Violet had said…

She blinked several times, and he could almost hear her nails digging into her palms. But she hadn't moved – she just kept looking at him in a way he'd almost forgotten. Sensations of touch and all too brief taste seemed to swirl around them, enveloping them in a haze of memory.

Mary is still…

_Is still…_

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he took another awkward step toward her – and her lip quivered only slightly. Another step, and her eyes narrowed, as if they were too full to keep open. A third and her lips and her forehead and the bridge of her nose wrinkled only for a second, before smoothing back out into relative calm.

That, too, was an expression he recognized – and he gazed upon her as if seeing her for the first time. His own hands twitched at his sides, but he was not as strong as she was and the instant she became close enough to touch, he yielded to the impulse. His fingers settled upon silk, his arms sinking around her to feel the warmth of her skin radiating through the thin fabric.

His chin was inches from her shoulder, but he kept his embrace loose around her back – wondering if she was remembering the first and only time he had ever held her, years ago at Sybil's ball.

"I missed you," he suddenly confessed, lost in a memory.

Her body remained stiff and unyielding, and just as he was beginning to believe he'd made a terrible mistake and cousin Violet had got it all so very wrong…her clenched fingers began to unfurl.

Her reply was barely audible – a whisper somewhere near his ear. "I know."

Then her arms started to rise, slipping under his, and for the first time in years…her hands alighted on his back.

"I'm so sorry," he breathed out, and it was somewhere between relief and regret.

Haltingly, she reassured him ("It's alright") before her head sunk against his shoulder on a long, shuddering breath – and another, and still another until he realized she was now silently sobbing.

Ignoring every other instinct, he pulled her closer to him, feeling her body flush against his, and his hand found its way to the back of her head and the long, beautiful hair he not so teasingly wished she would never cut. He wanted to remember the feel of it beneath his fingers, if only for a moment.

She seemed to tighten her grip on his back, as if hanging on for dear life – and he realized he was doing the same. Clinging to her – embracing her, at once both the port and the storm. His eyes closed almost against his will, trying to imprint the feel of her in his arms onto his soul for as long as he lived.

For as much as cousin Violet's words echoed within his heart, the context of her conversation was equally unforgettable.

He was to marry a girl who wasn't Mary.

The next time he might touch Mary again, it could be after his wedding. Or her wedding. They might share a dance, with the eyes of his wife or her husband upon them. Their hands would lightly brush against each other and perfunctorily embrace fabric shielded from the warmth of skin beneath. Open, yet unexposed.

It was simply too much to contemplate, and his own eyes began to fill as his knees began to weaken. Holding onto her as tightly as he could, he started to sink down further past the bed before he gently slid onto the floor.

He wondered when she would extricate herself and get up or run or leave, but she kept perfectly still – seemingly content to remain in his arms with her head tucked into his shoulder.

The first and only time they would ever hold each other like this.

His cheeks were damp, his eyes were heavy, and the only thing audible in the room was the sound of each drowsy breath. As he gradually drifted out of consciousness, he wondered why it felt so oddly familiar to fall asleep to the sound of her breathing.

Sometime later, he opened his eyes – seeing nothing, and feeling everything all at once. The numbness in his back, the dull, yet welcome ache in his legs, the tingling in his arms as they absorbed the softness of her embrace. How right her head felt tucked against his shoulder, how warm her arms felt near his waist, and how acutely aware he was that her legs were tangled up with his.

Never again, he thought suddenly – and his eyes squeezed painfully shut, as if to block out the thought.

But it was that thought that lifted his head, and with it, his hand – drawing slowly back from her, his fingers resting lightly on either side of her face as she lifted her eyes to his. He paused a moment to study her eyes, which almost glowed with confusion-tinged warmth in the darkness.

Selfishly, he allowed himself one more indulgence. Brushing his hand softly against her beautiful cheek, as if the gesture could wipe away both of their imaginary tears, he then leaned down and softly kissed her good morning and goodbye.

Her lips were cold, but sweetly pliable under his, as he tasted her breath for the last time – one hand moving down to clutch her shoulder in a final embrace.

She pulled away first – her eyes still closed for a moment, before she met his gaze and, with a small, knowing smile, pushed herself out of his arms. Drawing her legs up beneath her, she was now sat a short distance away from him.

He realized she was waiting for him – not wanting to stand in front of him, making sure he was alright (like always, he thought with a startling pang of recognition). Using the back of the bed to brace himself, he slowly rose to his feet – trying not to notice how her hands had seemed to reach toward him, before clenching back into fists once more at her sides.

Only when he was seated on the bed did she rise to stand in front of him and after a moment's hesitation, extended her hand in a more formal farewell.

For a moment, she didn't speak – her lips moving perhaps to search for the appropriate words. Finally, she settled on that encouraging smile he knew so well – the one that had greeted him upon every leave, and sent him back feeling happier for reasons he'd never admitted to himself.

"Well then…" Her smile fell briefly, before it became more brilliant – and sadder – than ever before. "…Such good luck!"

Somehow, he managed a smile in reply – one that told her they were alright, and with a nod, she turned and left the room.

Once the door had closed behind her, he pushed himself back on the bed and lay down, staring up at the ceiling as he'd done so many times in so many months before. He couldn't remember the ceiling at Crawley House, but he supposed it looked much the same. All ceilings seemed to look the same, he thought – be they in a guest room at the big house or in a ward for the wounded at the hospital.

At the hospital...

Closing his eyes, he let the silence of the room fill his ears. All at once, his eyes flew open once more – as he realized why falling asleep to the sound of her breathing had been so achingly familiar.

It had not been the first time it had happened. Even though it was now most certainly the last.

The End.


End file.
